As recently as Thanksgiving, I was telling everyone, including myself, that I was 31. I’d be 32 in February. Not until I worked the math in my head and then re-confirmed it twice on the calculator did I realize–no, wait…carry the two–I’d be 33.

Initially, I felt robbed. A year of my life had been smuggled, and now I had to kick my list of life’s ambitions into overdrive. Why, I was supposed to have appeared on Jeopardy by now. I was supposed to be holding down a successful job, a job that meant something, one that I was thoroughly passionate about, like drawing cartoons for Mad Magazine. But these were the least of my worries.

I still felt early-20s inside, but when I looked in the mirror the other day, my mug resembled a well-worn catcher’s mitt. I saw harder angles, a more rigid brow. And in some areas, mainly around the jaw line, my skin had adopted the qualities of Silly Putty. There was more extra skin than I’d remembered. It was as though my skull had slightly shrunk; not enough to cause people to stop and stare, but just enough for me to notice and feel self-conscience the rest of the workday.

Furthermore, my heart nearly seized two weeks ago when my wife, Jess, riding passenger en route to our birthday party (Jess has a February birthday too), started plucking at what she said was a straight white hair jousting from my curly head.  When she finally presented the rogue hair to me, it had the exact stubborn spring of a toothbrush bristle. You couldn’t bend it without it snapping right back into place. 

I’ve spotted random gray hairs before, but never ones with all the pigment wrung out. I thought this kind of thing only happens after one witnesses a traumatic event, runs into a ghost, or gets struck by lightening. I was very distressed about it. 

 But then I warmed up to the idea. Anyone who has ever looked at me probably has guessed correctly, either subconsciously or otherwise, that I wished my hair was straight. So, if the sample white hair was a sneak preview of my whole hair’s final outcome, I predicted, by 50, the curl in my hair would be no more. In fact, it would be straight. A slow, pleasant takeover was at hand, a straight-haired revolution. How fantastic!   

I knew it wouldn’t be the cool, straight variety with the long flowing locks. I’d have a bristle head, like an albino porcupine. But still! I couldn’t get over the thought of my dream of owning straight hair actually coming true.

Once this dream comes to past, I have good reason to believe that the rest of my dreams will soon be fulfilled, because, no matter what people say, this is a straight-haired world. Whereas Mad Magazine may be reluctant to add a curly-headed me to their staff, a straight-haired me would no doubt land the job no problem. I doubt I’d even need to show them clips or a resume. Yes, I was well on-track with my future goals.

So, 33 isn’t a bad age, I guess. But 50? Now that’s a good age. If you need me, I’ll be in the mirror searching for white, STRAIGHT hairs.

Categories: Life